


Better Than Heartbreak

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Stanley Cup Playoffs, Victory Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's morning in Vegas, technically, but Nicke and Alex aren't about to go to sleep anytime soon.





	Better Than Heartbreak

It was, technically, the morning after they'd won, a thought that filled Nicke with astonishment, as if the stroke of midnight was what had been required to make it all real, and not the joy on Alex's face, and the warmth of his breath on his lips, and their hands brushing as they held the cup together. Or perhaps he had thought the opposite, that it would all fade away at midnight, like—like—

 

_Cinderella_ , he thought, smiling to himself. Across a club table groaning with the weight of a dozen comically large bottles of vodka, Burkie grinned back, and then pointed up to the stage, where Alex, cup hoisted over his head like a minor god of victory, was dancing. Badly.

 

Shots were being offered at him from all directions. Laughing harder than he had in a long time, he selected one at random and raised it to the figure on the stage in salute. He was still damp from being drenched in champagne, and the press of bodies in the club didn't help. But when Alex's gaze snapped back at him, as if drawn by his attention, Nicke swore he felt all his hair stand on end.

 

Then there were more shots, more bad dancing, carrying the cup through MGM lobby with cameras circling them like satellites in orbit, singing off-key in the elevator. Nicke collapsed on the couch in their suite as soon as he and Alex had fumbled the door open.

 

"It's already morning," he said, still stuck on this fact. "The sun's gonna come out any minute." He should pull the blinds closed now so that their eyes wouldn't be stabbed with light when that happened.

 

"No," said Alex sternly, settling in next to him. "Not morning until after sleep."

 

"Then let's sleep," said Nicke, letting his hand fall. It landed on Alex's.

 

Nicke tensed, preparing for him to pull away. Instead the big fingers curled around his. He opened his eyes, heart hammering, to see Alex looking into his face, intent and still.

 

"No," he said again. "One thing left to do."

 

His hands came up and framed Nicke's face, and kissed him.

 

They were drunk on victory more than the alcohol, so maybe that was why Nicke kissed him back, scrambling at Alex's shoulders like his life depended on it. Or maybe all those years had given them something better than heartbreak after all.

 

Either way, he was fisting his good hand in Alex’s shirt like he meant to rip it straight off his back. He sure as hell wasn’t going to stop kissing Alex long enough to get it over his head; the rough, warm pressure of Alex’s lips on his were sending champagne bubbles straight through his veins, the taste of the kiss sweeter even than victory drunk out of a silver cup. Nicke realized almost in that moment that he had been waiting for one nearly as long as he had for the other.

 

Alex’s hands were moving now, across his shoulders, down his ribs, spreading fire in their wake. Every part of Nicke’s body felt so alive, so awake. Alex’s hands reached his hips and began to slide slowly beneath his shirt. Nicke shivered at the touch on his hands on his skin; nothing he had not felt a thousand times, on ice and off, but never in a dark hotel room with desire carving a pit in his stomach.

 

His breath caught, and Alex paused.

 

“Yes?” he asked. His eyes had that bright familiar glow in them—but his hands had hesitated. His captain, cocky, never unsure about anything, but just a little unsure about this.

 

Nicke clawed off his shirt, tossed it aside.

 

“Fuck yes,” he said, with feeling, and nearly fell into Alex's lap trying to kiss him again. He felt the deep belly rumble of his laugh vibrate through his bones. Alex kept laughing even as Nicke tried to kiss him, and then Nicke was laughing too, unable to repress the mad delirious joy of the moment. His hands were fumbling at Alex's shirt, trying to get the damned thing off, until unexpectedly it burst open, little plastic buttons flying everywhere.

 

Alex laughed even harder at the look on Nicke's face.

 

"You strong man, eh? Rip shirt straight off!"

 

"Please shut up," said Nicke, and ran his hands down Alex's bare chest, greedy. The laughter abruptly became a moan, and Alex reached up and wrapped his arms around Nicke, pressing him to his chest. Their mouths found each other.

 

Nicke was groping, his hand travelling downward, skimming over the faint line of fur that disappeared into the band of his shorts. Alex drew a quick sharp breath as Nicke's hand found his erection, hard and straining against the zipper. His hips bucked up into Nicke's touch.

 

"Alex," murmured Nicke, lips brushing over heated skin. "Alex—"

 

Alex groaned, deep in his throat, and swiftly rolled them both over—

 

—and off the couch.

 

Their shoulders hit the ground together, jarring even through many layers of plush carpet. Alex scrambled up over Nicke to peer into his face, instantly solicitous.

 

“I’m alright,” said Nicke, smiling up at him, the painful impact already forgotten. “Nothing can hurt me right now.”

 

“Hmm,” said Alex, considering this. “I still kiss and make better, yes?” His hands were undoing the button of Nicke’s jeans, who caught his breath at the possibility that implied. The zipper came undone, and Nicke, too, felt as if he were unraveling. Alex’s big hands were running down his hips, his thighs, shedding him of his jeans and boxers and bringing his skin to roaring life. He was whimpering now, loud as his own heartbeat in his ears, and god, it was hard to think over that sound and the sound of Alex laying obscene kisses all the way down his stomach. Nicke writhed against that mouth and mostly tried to keep breathing. He’s drunker than he has been in years, in a purely chemical sense, but the absurd thought keeps intruding that _this_ —here, now, naked in a Las Vegas hotel room—was the first moment of true clarity in his life, and the rest of it so far had only been a hazy unreal dream leading up to it. And with Alex Ovechkin of all people: but then, why not Alex? Who else _but_ Alex? Nicke felt blind, suddenly. It was the question central to him for the past eleven years. Who else but Alex?

 

Then Alex lowered his mouth again, and made all such questions unnecessary. His tongue was swirling madly, his hands flexing on Nicke’s hips, keeping them effortlessly still against Nicke’s bucking. Nicke’s world narrowed down to a single point of focus, hot and wet and perfect. He wanted to look, wanted so badly to see Alex’s mouth wrapped around his cock, to see Alex’s blue eyes looking back at him even as he stroked and licked and sucked, but he was sure the sight would leave him undone completely.

 

“God,” Nicke managed instead, gasping. “ _Alex_.”

 

There was a rumble in Alex’s throat that meant that he had just thought of a joke, but it only comes out as a deep, incredible vibration around Nicke’s cock as Alex worked him deeper and deeper into his throat. Nicke couldn’t bear the temptation anymore. He hoisted himself onto his elbows and looked. Alex was already looking back at him, as if he were only waiting for Nicke to get up the nerve.

 

Nicke has always thought of them as blue, but looking into Alex’s eyes now was something new, a revelation. He doesn’t have a name for the color he sees there; it was ice and home and hockey and everything he could ever love.

 

He was right. He didn’t last for even another second. He came in hot shuddering spurts all over Alex’s tongue and lips, the orgasm travelling all the way through him body like a lightning strike. He is immolated, inflamed; every part of him that is not dedicated to loving Alex Ovechkin is burned away in a moment.

 

Nicke started to form an apology, as soon as he could think words again, but Alex didn’t even seem to have noticed. He kissed his way back up Nicke’s body, taking his goddamn time, pretending he didn’t notice Nicke’s hands in his hair, tugging him up. All Nicke wants to do is to kiss him, to kiss Alex forever, in the darkness of the pre-dawn in a city that never sleeps. That would be everything.

 

When they were face to face at last, though, Nicke waited. He waited for Alex to speak like he waited for him all those years on the ice, waiting for him to get into the right angle, to shoot, to score. He wanted Alex to say it first.

 

“Finally,” said Alex, hoarse and unexpectedly serious, and Nicke _knew_ what he was really saying, as if he could ever doubt.

 

“Finally,” said Nicke, tender, smiling at him in the dark. And then he reached out for him, less tenderly, because if there was something Nicklas Backstrom has gotten good at, it was making sure Alex Ovechkin has exactly what he needs.

 

The sun did come up, eventually. It rose golden over their shed clothes and their tangled limbs and crowned them in glory.


End file.
